Responsibility
by cannedmeat
Summary: Kyle hates that he cares.


"Yeah, but if he died you'd probably be upset."

"No. I wouldn't."

Stan purses his lips around the beer bottle then removes them with wet pop. "Really?"

Kyle doesn't hesitate before repeating: "No. I wouldn't."

"Hm."

"Would you?"

"Would I be upset?" Stan absently picks at the bottle's label. "Yeah, I think so."

"But he's a fucking piece of shit, Stan. He's pure evil," Kyle says, pouring a handful of empty sunflower seeds into the ashtray on the table in front of them.

Stan shrugs. "I think he's had a lot going on. You know, in his head."

Kyle snorts loudly. "So did Adolf Hitler. Doesn't mean we're supposed to forgive his Nazi ass."

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

"So you wouldn't be upset, either."

"Well, I think I still would."

"Damnit, Stan. Name one nice thing Cartman has done for you."

Stan leans back in the couch, frowning, his dark eyebrows fused together in thought. He belches. "That's a tough question."

Kyle laughs incredulously. "The fact that it's a tough question answers the question."

Kenny trips over the side of the table, one hand clutching Bebe's wrist, the other loosely holding a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "Woah, woah, sorry." He reaches down to pat Stan's knee apologetically.

The last year of high school did wonders for Kenny Mccormick's dick. Taking the advice of his peers and wearing less facially obscuring hoodies has given the hormonal girls in their grade and a couple of grades below a glance at his face and presented the idea that, yes, he was conventionally cute in a skater, dirty, surfer blond kind of way.

Stan smiles up at him and winks, raising his fist for a bump and Kenny all but accidentally punches him in the face, his eyes soaked in alcohol.

Kyle makes a face. "Oh God, is Kenny going to be that guy."

"What guy?" Stan asks, watching a giggling Bebe swat at Kenny's arm as he leads her towards the bedroom.

"The one taking advantage of the drunk girls at parties. It's really shitty, you know."

"Kyle, you need to stop reading those blogs. Also Bebe wants it, look at her. If she was a baboon her ass would, like, be super red right now," Stan says, giggling his way through the last of his sentence.

Kyle glances at his red cheeks and grins. "You're drunk."

Before Stan can answer, Craig Tucker has appeared behind Kyle, stony-faced.

"Jesus," Stan says, pointing to alert Kyle.

"No. It's just Craig," Kyle says after he turns, trying to figure out if Craig is drunk but he knows deciphering any expression on his face can be all but a nightmare.

"You both owe me twenty dollars," Craig drones, his impassive eyes resting on the empty bottles on the table.

"What?" Stan says, laughing. "We already paid you for the booze!"

"Not for the beer," Craig sneers, twitching his head over to the kitchen where Cartman lies in a pool of vomit with Butters crouched beside his unconscious body, mumbling reassuringly and patting at his back. "For that."

"We are not responsible for Eric Cartman," Kyle says through gritted teeth.

"Why do you hang out with him then," Craig states more than asks.

"We don't. He just shows up."

"Why don't you tell him to go away."

Stan is still laughing. "I don't know, dude. Kyle?"

"We do, but he still follows us," Kyle says, starting to get really tired of Craig Tucker and his 'questions'.

Craig shakes his head. "No. You willingly hang out with him. You always have chances to tell him not to but you don't. That's why no one feels sorry for you guys."

Kyle is staring at Craig with wide, angry eyes. "You threw a party for the grade, why are you blaming this on us?"

"There was an invitation list and Eric Cartman wasn't invited. He followed you guys. So he's your responsibility. Leave the money on my counter before you leave." Craig turns swiftly and walks back to Clyde Donovan who is presently trying to drink from two different beers using two different straws.

"Can you believe that fucking asshole?" Kyle says breathlessly, watching him go.

Stan shrugs. "He's sort of right." He meets Kyle's stare. "He's also a fucking asshole, yeah."

Kyle huffs, glancing at the clock. "I gotta go home soon. I have a chemistry quiz at eight a.m tomorrow."

Stan groans and puts the bottle on the table decisively. "Oh come on, Kyle. How many opportunities are you going to have like this?"

"Like this? At Craig's house? Short twenty dollars? With a headache? Hopefully not a lot," Kyle says reaching over and plucking Stan's hat from his head.

"No, I mean with your super best friend, obviously. Your super, duper, awesome, cool, attractive best friend," Stan drawls reaching up to grab his hat back.

Kyle smirks. "We'll have plenty of opportunities after graduation, I bet."

Stan burps. "No you're going to be cool and smart and rich."

"Smart and rich, probably. Cool? Stan, come on."

"Come on, people now, people now. People now, come on, people n-"

Kyle lunges forward and slams one hand down onto Stan's mouth, the other one holding the back of his head. "No. No. No."

"Um. Fellas?" A quiet voice mumbles from behind Kyle just as he starts yelling and pulling his hand back.

"Eugh gross, you licked my fucking hand, Stan."

"It was so salty."

"Fellas?"

"What, Butters?" Kyle asks, furiously wiping his hand on the chair seat while Stan rolls onto his back, smiling up at the ceiling.

"I, uh. Eric sure needs a lot'a help right now," Butters says slowly, his bright blue eyes full of panic. "He threw up all over the floor!"

"Yes, Butters," Kyle says, exasperated. "He did throw up. Drunk people throw up."

"Yeah, Stotch, get it together," Stan says, scratching at his dishevelled black hair from over his hat.

Butters smiles nervously. "Oh. Yeah. Well, um, this is a lot of throw up. All…over the floor. He looks awful sick, and-"

"I don't care about Eric Cartman," Kyle snaps. "I don't care if he throws up. I don't care if he drowns in a sea of his own barf. I'm not helping him, and I sure as fuck am not paying 20 dollars for his fat racist ass."

Stan sits up, his mouth forming a small circle.

Butters twists and turns the bottom of his shirt between his fingers, his knuckles white. "Er, okay. Sorry to bother you, Kyle. I'll uh…I'll ask someone else." He offers a weak smile and then turns to shuffle back to the kitchen.

Kyle stares at where Butters was, breathing hard.

Stan watches him, clicking his tongue. "That was pretty mean."

Kyle doesn't answer, his mouth and nose slowly scrunching up into a point on his face. "God damnit! Damnit! Damnit, damnit. Damn this. Fuck this!" He gets up, yanking his scarf and gloves off, stomping off into the kitchen.

Stan wobbles to his feet, watching Kyle stand over Cartman's lifeless form, prodding him with his boot then crouching down to poke at his pale face.

Stan smiles, lopsided, and walks through a slow, drunken haze to join him. "Aw. You do care," he says peering down at Kyle.

"Stan. I swear to God," Kyle says, his green eyes flashing.

Stan raises his hands apologetically. "It's cute!"

Kyle grumbles and reaches down to yank at Cartman's arm. "Come on, lard-ass. We're going to the hospital."

Cartman gurgles then coughs.

"Come on!" Kyle says, pulling at his arm, crouched and leaning back. "Stan, help me. Butters, grab his leg and tilt him over."

"Okay, Kyle," Butters pipes excitedly like he was just picked first for softball instead of asked to move a drunk, unconscious teenager.

"Finally," Craig's voice sounds from across the kitchen and Kyle ignores him.

Stan is grabbing the back of Cartman's jacket and pulling him up as Kyle hoists his arm over his shoulder and Butters pushes his legs up to a seated position.

"So. Fucking. Fat," Kyle mutters, breathless, his ushanka sliding down onto his eyes.

"I don't think we're gonna make it," Stan slurs, fearfully watching Cartman's large mass teeter dangerously to the left.

Twenty minutes and a couple bruises later Cartman is loaded up into the backseat of Token's car.

"I can't believe this is what being a designated driver means," Token groans, slipping into the driver's seat. "I can't believe this is how my night is ending."

Kyle stands with his arms crossed. "We have no other choice."

Token's BMW cruises down the driveway as Kyle and Stan watch, the sounds of the party pulsing from the house behind them.

"Well, that's taken care of," Kyle says, throwing his arm around Stan's shoulder. "You're never bringing this up ok? I don't care about Cartman, I just don't want to be responsible for his death."

Kyle glances over at a silent Stan.

"Okay, Stan?"

Stan doesn't answer, he just stares. Slightly swaying from left to right.

"Stan. You're freaking me out, your eyes are like. Really red."

Stan leans in and promptly throws up on Kyle's shoe.

"Great. Let's go home." Kyle removes his arm from Stan's shoulder and switches it up, holding Stan up against him as he slowly walks down the street with the drunk idiot.

"You're my ssssuper best friend. Best friend," Stan chuckles, his face pressed against Kyle's neck.

"Ew, stop, you're drooling on me."

Stan snorts at the end of his laugh. "Would you be sad if I died. Like right now. If I fell and died. Right now."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"Yeah, I guess so." Kyle hunches his back and pulls Stan's arm as he starts to slide off.

"If I died right now?"

"Yeah, Stan, I'd be really sad if you died right now," Kyle says, reaching up to take his hat off. It's cold out but all this movement has made him sweaty. His barf-soaked shoe squeaks every time he steps down with it.

Kyle can't see Stan but he's sure he's smiling like a nut. "Sadder than Cartman dying? If Cartman died you'd be more sad though if I died right?"

"You're not making any sense. Are you asking if I'd be more sad if you died than if Cartman died? Of course I'd be more sad if you died, idiot. God, your beardy stuff is digging into my neck. You're giving me razor burn. When did you get so hairy?"

"Dad's fault," Stan slurs.

Kyle looks down at Stan's hand. "Your knuckles too, Jesus, look at them. You're gonna be Sasquatch in a couple of years."

"Few hairs on my chest wanna see too?"

"No thanks, Tarzan."

"Girls love it."

"I'm sure they do. Okay here, we're at your home."

Stan frowns and becomes dead-weight in Kyle's arms. "Mine? No. Kyle my mom's gonna like- gonna kill me, Kyle. Let's go to yours. Come on."

"What?" Kyle whispers ferociously. "I have a test tomorrow, Stan, I can't take care of your drunk ass."

Stan frowns, his eyes quickly filling with tears of frustration. "Kyle. Shit, my mom is going to kill me. Kyle."

Kyle groans and looks up at the sky. "Oh for fuck's sake, why does this shit always happen to me?"

Stan doesn't answer but looks positively heart-broken, his blue eyes drowsily searching Kyle's face for a sign of agreement.

"Fine. Okay. Let's go."

Hoisting Stan through his window takes about ten minutes, then another five to get himself up and over the sill. Stan is lying face down on his bed, still in his hat and muddy boots.

Kyle sighs, moving to the back of the bed and pulling off his boots. "Here. Give me your hat, greaseball."

Stan reaches up and pulls his hat off, throwing it over to Kyle who tosses it onto his counter with his own hat and discarded sweater. He lifts his foot out of his soiled shoe and grabs a shirt from his laundry basket to wipe at it with.

"Take off your jacket too, it's gross and the germs are getting on my bed."

Stan moans and slips onto his back, zipping down his coat and crawling out of it like an insect. Kyle reaches over and yanks it up and off his bed.

"Okay, sleep. I'm waking you up in- oh God, it's three a.m, I'm going to have four hours of sleep."

Kyle crawls into his bed, facing away from Stan, his eyes angrily screwed shut.

"Kyle," Stan whispers.

"What?"

"Sorry."

Kyle turns around, facing Stan. He frowns. "It's okay."

"Are you mad?"

"No," Kyle says, resting a hand on his warm shoulder. "I'm not mad. I promise."

"Okay," Stan smiles, closing his eyes.

Kyle turns back around and lifts the blanket up to his chin, sighing.

"Kyle?"

"What?"

"Look."

Kyle turns around again with a groan. "What is it?"

Stan pulls the front of his shirt down, the moonlight through the window helping reveal a handful of inch long coarse black hairs. "Check it out."

Kyle hisses quietly with laughter. "Dude. So sexy."

"Right?"

Kyle gets back into his prior sleep-position, but he's not tired anymore.

Stan's voice comes again, this time tired, quiet, on the verge of sleep. "Kyle. I'd be really sad if you died. More sad than Cartman being dead."

"Fuck Cartman," Kyle murmurs.

"Yeah. Fuck him."


End file.
